​I'm incredibly excited to be a part of Nancee Cain's release tour for her fantastic contemporary romance novel: The Resurrection of Dylan McAthie... so much so, I had to pinch one of my Mum's Tena Ladies (sorry Mum)... anyway, enough about my excitable bladder, back to the reason I'm writing this: if you love your contemporary romances to contain lashings of laugh out loud hilarity intersected with hair-pulling drama and face-fanning moments then read on... ​​

​​​At seventeen, music legend Dylan McAthie ran away from his Alabama home to chase his dreams. Years later, he’s forced to return—coming full circle to escape the nightmare his life has become. Hounded by paparazzi and plagued by the aftermath of personal and professional loss, Dylan craves some quiet anonymity so he can regroup and sort out what lies ahead.

Hired by his estranged brother, Jennifer Adams knows exactly who Dylan is. She grew up next door to his family and has followed his career. But the surly, overbearing man she’s caring for as a private-duty nurse is far from the charming boy she remembers. Nevertheless, she’s determined to be professional, do a good job—and not fail at her first time getting away from home.

As her patient heals, his demeanor softens, and their interactions grow less antagonistic. Soon their chemistry is undeniable—and inappropriate—leaving the inexperienced Jennifer thoroughly confused. Adding to the turmoil, scandal finds Dylan once again, threatening all the progress he’s made and putting Jennifer at risk as collateral damage.

It’s up to Dylan to fix what his fame has so easily broken and find a way to move forward with his life. But will his resurrection mean the death of any relationship with Jennifer?​

​​Fancy reading it? Of course you do! Only Tax Collectors with a nightly routine of plaid pyjamas, decaffeinated Kopi Luwak Coffee, and a copy of The Financial Times would say no.

And you're not one of those broadsheet boring-baldies, are you?

I didn't think so.

However, just in case you're still stuck on the fence with change jangling in your pocket, let me grab you a stepladder and offer you my personal opinion on why your spare coins might be wisely invested in the purchase of this book... ​

First things first: This review won’t contain any spoilers. Because I’m nice like that… contrary to what my husband might say.

I was gifted a digital copy and, after reading it, I ordered a hardcopy (get building more shelves, Husband). If a book’s good I like to own a real version… one that I can sniff when the mood takes me (ever tried sniffing a Kindle? It’s very disappointing and people look at you like you’re crazy).

I have to admit, I dip in and out of contemporary romance because I get a teeny-weeny bit tired of certain character traits and predictabilities that seem to be synonymous with many contemporary romance stories. You know the ones… a testy Alpha male starts off broken and troubled, only he meets a girl and ‘BAM’ (through the use of unrealistic feminine powers none of us mere mortals can ever attain) she changes him into a perfect, poetic Adonis who is unrecognisable from the man he was at the beginning of the story. Please, don’t shout at me for saying this. I will cry. And it won’t be pleasant. Sure, books with idealistic perfection will always have a place (and rightly so). But there are so many to choose from. The Resurrection of Dylan McAthie takes that trope and gives it a good pounding (like tenderising a tasty steak or, for the vegetarians reading this, pestle and mortaring an incredible flavour into a piece of soy).

Dylan’s life is a bit of a car crash; he’s been through the mill (and then some). But. I don’t think I have ever read a more realistic, funny, flawed, endearing and (at times) enraging character as Dylan within the contemporary romance genre.

Yes, we read for escapism from this horribly hectic world. And let’s face it, no one wants to read about ‘real men’— they fart, they constantly fiddle with their balls, and they forget important dates… like your ANNIVERSARY. But. I have to say the bar for fictional male leads (in my humble opinion) is often set so unrealistically high, I can’t always immerse myself fully in the story world (call me cynical and unimaginative). That didn’t happen with The Resurrection of Dylan McAthie. The author clearly knows her men and knows how far she can push realism without stepping over into the unappealing. And that was so much fun to read. Dylan has the perfect amount of charm, flaws and sex-appeal; he is one of my top ten book boyfriends to date (shhh… don’t tell my husband).​

"I know that you don't care if you get cancer, but haven't you heard of second hand smoke?"​ "Misery loves company, angel. You can join me in an early grave."

Jennifer Adams is relatable, and a girl you’d happily have as a best friend. She might be sweet, kind and a naïve preacher’s daughter, but she’s by no means a fool (sure, she might not always make the most sensible decisions, but there is always a plausible and justifiable reason behind them). She has just the right balance of vulnerability and sass.

"He's not that bad, Daddy. He even has a Bible verse tattooed on his ribcage."​ "I hardly think that makes him a Bible scholar, Jennifer."

The combination of the two characters makes for the most hilarious, sexually-charged and interesting journey. I read this in two sittings. It was fast-paced and had twists and turns I did not see coming or anticipate the outcome of. The ending left me settled, satisfied and complete.

"You're supposedly the world's sex-uh, I mean, talented lead guitarist. But I've yet to hear you play." She could feel herself blushing.​ "I'm a sex-talented lead guitarist? Do you think I play with my damn dick?"​ "Don't most men?"

Still not sure? Still balancing on the fence with indecision? That's okay. I have a solution! In celebration of her new release Nancee is running a rafflecopter giveaway for all you beautiful people (no purchase necessary). To be in with a chance to win $50 of Amazon vouchers all you have to do is click here. ​

​A little bit about Nancee:

During the day, Nancee Cain works as a nurse/counselor in the field of addiction to support her coffee and reading habit. Nights are spent writing paranormal and contemporary romances with a serrated edge.

Authors are her rock stars, and she’s been known to stalk a few for an autograph, but not in a scary, Stephen King way. Her husband swears her To-Be-Read list qualifies her as a certifiable book hoarder.

Always looking to try something new, she dreams of being an extra in a Bollywood film, or a tattoo artist. (Her lack of rhythm and artistic ability may put a damper on both of these dreams.)

Finally, if you'd like to keep up to date and/or spy on Nancee's bookish shenanigans, you can click any (or all) of the social links below.

It’s a well-known fact that mythical creatures have appropriated grandiose notoriety and stories to fair better in today’s media-led society. And vampires are the kings and queens of the propaganda ferris wheel; so, today I’m going to pull the breaks at the funfair and set the record straight about these pale-skinned, lily-livered, blood fiends— once and for all.

‘Geminae Dente Virgo Fututorum’ (that’s the technical Latin name for 'vampire') roughly translates to ‘Twin Fanged Virgin Fucker.’ (Apologies for the crass language. But if you’ve read this far, you clearly wanted the truth. And truth is never pretty). However, as I don’t want to offend, and seeing that typing Twin Fanged Virgin Fucker gets a little repetitive, from here onwards I will use TFVF instead.

​Disseminating TFVF: Fact from fiction...

Inability to walk in the daylight: now, contrary to popular belief, the TFVF won’t spontaneously combust into a fiery inferno if exposed to sunlight. Shocker, right? I know. Like you and I, they can happily stroll in the sun without even a hint of a singed hair. Not only that, they can, in fact, accomplish a nice sun-kissed glow.

How do I know this?

Because an expert, anonvamptruthhunter69, uploaded videos on YouTube about them from his Mum and Dad's garage.

TFVFs were documented on the beach, soaking up the very rays that are meant to turn them into hideous human fireworks. Not only that, they were filmed in the park, playing frisbee with their BFFs, the Hounds of Hell (there’ll be another expose about these dodgy dog impersonators soon). TFVFs have been lying to us all along about their inability to walk in the sun. But. Sightings of these neck-sucking-toothy-terrors walking about in daytime are rare.

Why?

Simple. Vanity.

Yep, our iron-deficient dudes and dudettes fear wrinkles.

There’s no getting away from sun damage, and these pasty people know the harsh reality of UV rays. The flame bursting myth was concocted to propagate a bad-arse fable about these precious narcissists. Reputation is everything. Propaganda, people—pure spin.

Excess nail growth and lack of body hair: this, like most hair-rific problems regular people incur, is a hormone imbalance.

But it doesn’t stop there.

​Why do you think western society promotes hairless bodies and acrylic nails? Ever wondered who ‘really’ owns all those nail bars? Because they are EVERYWHERE. Ever questioned why hair-removal products are so expensive? Yeah, that’s right, TFVFs have their talon-fingers in this, people. They are the Illuminati of the beauty industry. Don’t blame the beauticians or laser removal technicians, though. They are merely pawns.

Fangs/blood drinking: Whilst these two points are very much rooted in fact (bad pun very much intended), their origins have been skewed to cover up a rather embarrassing reality.

TFVF are lactose and gluten intolerant, suffer from irritable bowel syndrome and have a genetic inability to absorb nutrients properly (namely iron and B vitamins). They get the shits if they drink dairy and break out in a nasty case of hives if they eat flour-based cake; so, they adapted with a spot of blood-supping. Sustenance straight from the tap. Easily digestible and packed full of all the stuff needed to sustain these pastel-faced bandits.

Much like the lack of wisdom teeth in many, and the useless appendix in us all, TFVF evolved pronounced canines. As blunted fangs make for poor skin penetration (and gone are the days where they could get away with tearing out throats without consequence) natural selection did its work, and survival of the pointy-toothed-fittest won. The law maybe an ass, but it’s saved us from all the inadequately fanged—since ripping out throats generally leads to death and murder is a crime.

Immortality: there’s a lot of speculation about the longevity of a TFVF. Truth is, no one knows. It’s been confirmed that a stake through the heart or decapitation will end them, but those kinds of methods are likely to kill anything.

Sexual appeal: one word... HYPNOSIS. Mind-manipulators are not benign cabaret acts. Beware the man who whips out a pocket watch. He's likely of the vampire persuasion.

Because I've had a busy week, I thought I'd cheat on this weeks blog and post a short story I wrote a while ago... I promise to have something more bite-sized up next week :-).

Somerton

I’d always wondered how Billy felt when he died. Rumour spread like rats through a sewer; the people in town said all his dealings with the wrong kind of ideas had cursed him. According to some, his body was found trussed up like a chicken on a spit in the middle of the woods; according to others, he’d had his heart ripped clean from his chest and then staked to a tree. I was five at the time, and the twenty years since haven’t helped quieten speculation.

Death in any town is troublesome. But in ours? It never happens. At least, it shouldn’t. My name is Tabitha Meadows and I’m Custodian to the three-hundred and seventy-five people of Somerton— the link between them and the outside world. But being dogsbody and peacekeeper to a village in a rift outside of time is about as joyous as shovelling donkey shit for a living.

Still, if you don’t want to die, and you promise to not turn into a complete fruit-loop because your neighbours are eternal, Somerton is the place to live.

She spat out her words like a dirty curse. “I want you to find ‘em, of course.”

“I’m not spending my morning traipsing across town because you’ve had another falling out. I’ve got better things to do with my time.”

Olive’s eyes darted around; she lowered her voice in a panicked whisper, “It weren’t just normal talk. It were blasphemous, I tell you. About… Billy.”

“Billy.” I folded my arms and rolled my eyes.

She flapped a wrinkled hand and hissed, “Don’t be saying that name so loud. Bad omens.”

“I read Billy Goats Gruff to Mrs. Spooner’s class the other day. Does that count?” I raised my eyebrow and smirked.

“They were talking about his curse, girl.”

Her Gorgon-esque expression and patronising tone did little to penetrate my apathy for her plight. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. Curses don’t exist, Olive.”

“You try telling that to his poor Mama.”

“Olive. It’s been twenty years since… Billy. And in my five years as Custodian you’ve concocted more stories about his death than I’ve had hot dinners. Perhaps you should note these tales down and sell them?” I nodded. “Might make yourself a bit of money, you know.”

“Don’t get smart with me, Miss Tabitha Meadows.”

“Then don’t poke me with your stick and call me girl when you want help.” I placed my hands on my hips and continued before another word spewed from her mouth. “Billy’s body was never found, Olive. Everyone knew he was fond of eating wild mushrooms and getting high. It’s also common knowledge that his Mum dragged him here because she couldn’t stand the thought of losing another son. If you ask me, he either wandered off—high as a kite—and found himself outside of the boundary, or, he left of his own free will because he couldn’t take being stuck in his sixteen-year-old body after forty years of puberty. Contrary to your beliefs, not everyone wants to spend eternity existing inside this town.”

She gurned until her lips disappeared into her leathery face. “What would you know? You’re twenty-five. Barely old enough to wipe your own arse.”

“Olive Crisp! Don’t they teach you in church that if you haven’t got a nice thing to say then don’t say anything at all? A bit of humility goes a long way here. How about on my next trip into the city I pick up a book on the subject?”

“Don’t you dare go waving your freedom in my face, Tabitha Meadows.”

“Freedom?” I snorted. “You chose to be here. I didn’t. The day I got landed with Custodian duties I lost everything. Friends… Home… Job… Fiancé.”

“Quit whining. Ain’t no man dumb enough to court you.”

I pointed a finger at her. “Stop digging that hole before you fall in it, Olive.”

“Don’t you be threatening me, missy.”

I turned to walk away. Olive’s voice cut through the air like nails on a chalkboard, “They said there’s a way to let it in.”

I stopped, took a breath and gritted my teeth. “Let what in?”

“What do you think? The tooth fairy? Death, you fool. They said the boy found a door to let death in. They were going to open it, and then tell him where I lived.”

I bit a chunk in my cheek to stifle a smile and faced her. “And why would they do that?”

“How the hell should I know?” she replied indignantly.

I stopped fighting the need to smile but made no effort to list the reasons why this town would be better off without Olive Crisp.

“Said it’s up at that cursed tree, the one where… he was found.” She pointed her stick behind me, toward the woods. “And it’s your job to stop that kind of thing. So do what you’re meant to, and stop them.”

I glared at her for a long, hard moment. Olive Crisp was the most ungrateful, spiteful old bat to grace the earth. But a lynch mob set out to crucify old Crisp would give me a headache I didn’t need.

“Fine.” Without bothering to explain myself, I stormed along the road, up the hill, and into the wood.

Olive needed a bone to chew on, so I’d give her a big tough one to get her gnashing teeth into. Hopefully, it’d tire her jaw and she’d quit badmouthing people long enough for them to settle down.

I reached the top of the wood, pulled out my phone and clicked the camera on; slowly, carefully, I walked around the tall, dead gnarled tree that the towns’ folk thought was Billy’s, filming broken branches and bare roots. Unending time for small minds ran imaginations crazy, but a tree was just a tree. I’d call a town meeting, force them all to watch the film until their eyes blurred, and then make Olive publicly apologise to the Hermins’ for being an old biddy.

As I turned to leave wind rippled along the ground, lashing goosebumps across my skin. I clasped my elbows and shivered. Stupid Olive and her tall talking of curses. About to storm back down the hill, into town and demand an emergency meeting, I made one glance back.

That’s when I saw him.

A red-haired boy—no older than sixteen—dressed in jeans and black jacket, lifted a finger to his lips. I recognised him instantly. I know the dead when I see them, and Billy Baker was most certainly dead.

He nodded toward the town and smiled. “Death’s coming for them. Whether they want it or not.”

The church bell rang. Dong. Dong. Dong… it went on and on, vibrating through the air like an unhinged note. I swallowed the ball of fear, turned tail and ran until my lungs burned and my legs seized—down the hill, through the street— I didn’t stop until I reached the church steps.

It was two days later when we found Olive Crisp dead in the woods. Tongue torn from her head, bible clasped to her chest, she looked like a modern-day recreation of some macabre renaissance painting. Mr. and Mrs. Hermin were discovered shortly after, only their corpses were laid out like blinded angels in prayer.

And I thought it’d been tough babysitting the folk of Somerton? It was only when they started dying that my real problems began.

This isn’t one of my epically long blogs. I’ve been man-flued up this week (what can I say... I’m a fragile creature when snot is involved).

So instead of passing on my wondrous wisdom, I thought I’d share the kind of stuff my husband (the fourth child in our three child household) does when I'm shivering, crying and generally dying in bed. Yes, I'm a hypochondriac. And I'm not ashamed to admit it.

He brings a Dymo home and gets to work labelling things...

Cute, huh? He's such a goof... with a sweet sense of humour. Haha... no. If there's a line to cross, he will eventually cross it.

I think the line has been stepped over here. This was stuck to the toilet lid... and the children got involved too. They added 'BUM HOLE'.

This is the our fridge... it's a giant telephone box. And this is how one man made something fun and funky into something murky and seedy (at least the kids couldn't see this label, it was too small and too high).

I think he went in a different direction with this and crossed a different line. This was stuck to the mirror in our living room... I do not look in the mirror all the time! I'm quite insulted.

And finally, the line is mere speck on the horizon with this label. This candle, above our fireplace, was given to me by his sister (for those who don't know me, Rita isn't my real name... but that's another story). Beautiful. Who said romance was dead, eh? Luckily the kids didn't see this one... although they did see the label he stuck on my back that said 'twat'. Thank you, husband. I will seek my revenge. One day. When you lest expect it...